


The Plan

by maskedbandit



Category: Fargo (2014), Wrenchers - Fandom
Genre: M/M, NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-13 22:58:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2168415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maskedbandit/pseuds/maskedbandit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wrench decides he wants something. And he is going to take it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phase One: A Roaring Success

Things like this only happen on the coldest nights, when they are least expected. Things like this never happen during the hotter nights. When they take a job in Miami or Los Angeles, when they walk down those muggy streets, when light weight clothes stick to their skin even in the latest hours, they watch more carefully, aware at all times that this is the time for the bored and the deranged to wander the streets, armed with knives, guns, and worse. But this never happens there, or then. Only here, and now. The snow outside is thick, the temperature well below freezing. He wonders why any fool would go outside at this time of night, when it is he and his partner who are the ones who are bored, deranged, and armed. But outside these selected few were, in the wee hours, pursuing a final dose of medicinal alcohol, before going home. And it is those selected few who now, through no fault of their own beyond the desire to escape meaningless lives in a meaningless universe, will never go home to unfulfilled wives or empty apartments again.

 

Wrench sits stoic, statue-like on the bar stool, feeling the crunch of broken glass beneath his boots and smelling the gun residue, spilled liquor, and blood in the air. On the floor. On the walls. On himself. There is blood on his jacket, which he has draped over the bar to inspect, crusting together a few strands of fringe. He will have to think of something to get the blood out of the rough leather. Beside him his partner babbles. It is a mark of his pent up anxiety, a crack in his ordinarily perfectly controlled demeanor. The hit has gone sour. Their target is dead, yes, but he had tried to run. This had not been in the plan. Numbers will have to explain to their employers in Fargo that they had followed him into this bar, and that he had attempted to take the bartender and his few patrons hostage. Wrench has blood on his hands, and it smears his glass, one of the few whole ones remaining in the now desiccated establishment. At the moment, he cannot tell if it is his or someone else’s. For the moment, he does not care.

 

He watches his partner’s reflection in the mirror on the wall over the bar. He does not look at him directly. Numbers’ hands flit about, twitchy and jittery, only half signing all of what he is saying, which is nothing. Wrench doesn’t respond or interact; these words are not really for him. The half-conscious signing is only a side effect; a habit of so many years spent with a deaf partner. No, Wrench isn’t paying attention to his partner’s words. He is paying attention to what Numbers is drinking. And what Numbers is drinking is a lot. As soon as the spray of bullets, fired by the two partners, the target, and the bartender, had ceased and the casualties confirmed to be so, Numbers had reached across the bar and grabbed the first available source of hard liquor within arm’s reach. That bottle had been bereft of its contents for some time now, and several more, similarly empty, bottles had joined it on the counter. Wrench sticks to nursing a few beers, slowly. He is waiting.

 

Wrench has been planning something for a long time. Planning is something he excels at, though you would not know it to look at him. Numbers’ obsessiveness often lead to his taking control of their professional planning, which Wrench does not mind. Numbers’ obsessiveness often lead to his taking control of most things, which, again, Wrench does not mind. Letting his partner take charge is often the simplest solution. But Wrench has his own plans, just the same. Wrench is less proactive than his partner. He plays the long game in most things. He can be patient, when there is something in his sights that he wants. Many months ago an idea had taken hold of his imagination, and for many months he has been biding his time, waiting, watching for just the moment. And tonight is that moment. They are alone, Number is off his game, his guard is down, and he is intoxicated. Tonight, at long last, is the night for Wrench to take what he wants. And what he wants is Numbers.

 

When Wrench finally chooses to act; to make his move, as it were; he moves quickly, without warning, without making a sound, and without hesitation. He turns on the bar stool, facing his frantic and still jabbering partner. Glasses and bottles shatter, but Wrench does not hear them and so he does not care. He looms over Numbers, who looks at him, startled and bleary. He looks up into the face of death itself, uncomprehending. Wrench only pauses for the span of a breath before he presses this man, this killer, his partner in crime and only friend, still seated on his own stool, against the bar. He places each hand on the counter, on either side of his partner, his feet spread and anchored as they would be when firing a rifle at a target, locking Numbers into this position. Wrench has no intention of giving Numbers even an inch to escape. He stares down at the man, breathing deeply and slowly, before placing a steadying hand on the smaller man’s wary face, and kissing him.

 

Numbers attempts to resist, but the night’s events, the alcohol, and the shock have made him clumsy. He pushes against Wrench, trying to speak, trying to get a punch in, but the larger man has him by the arms and by the mouth. He grabs the man bodily, sliding the bar stool the few feet to the wall, knocking it out from under Numbers, so that now they are both standing. Ignoring his partner’s panic-stricken expression, he places each hand on the wall on either side of Number’s head before slowly, inexorably, returning to Numbers’ mouth, rolling his shoulders, then his torso, his belly, his hips, and, finally, his thighs into the man, steadying, trapping, and pressing Numbers into the wall, before slowly coaxing his mouth open with his tongue. Numbers is no longer resisting him, but he is tense. Wrench removes his hands from the wall to take up his partner’s face.

 

He cracks an eyelid to assess the situation. Numbers’ eyes are closed, but his brow is furrowed, his tension clearly evident. Wrench pulls away slightly, a small test, and Numbers leans forward, as though to follow him. He does not wait for Numbers to open his eyes before returning to the kiss, deepening it, sliding his body against that of his partner. Numbers does not reach for him, does not touch him, but Wrench does not mind. He knows him plan will take time, that he will have to move it along in baby steps. He continues, thumbing his partner’s jaw line, uncurling a closed hand against the delicate skin at Numbers’ throat, loosening the knotted scarf in order to gently finger a small amount of exposed collar bone, all the while occupying the man’s mouth with his own, running his tongue over straight teeth and pink gums, luxuriating in the sensation of that thick beard scratching against his own days’ unshaven jaw.

 

Wrench has been dreaming about that beard and those collar bones. He has wanted to touch them for ages, and now that he has, he does not want to stop. He pulls out of the kiss, eliciting a small gasp from Numbers. For only the briefest moment, Wrench allows himself to admire Numbers’ flushed expression, his swollen lips, his unsteady breathing, before bending down and opening another button of his partner’s shirt. He touches the tip of his tongue, and then his lips to that exposed bone. He feels Numbers gasp again. His body and hands twitch and jerk outward, but still he does not reach for Wrench. Wrench lingers for a moment, trailing his hands along Numbers’ chest and torso, finding their way into the folds of his coat, brushing his hips and momentarily hooking into his belt loops. His mouth explores the junctures of shoulder to throat, throat to jaw, and Wrench feels his belly thrill as Numbers lifts his chin to make room for him. He can feel the smaller man’s heart beat, fast and frantic in his jugular. Wrench almost smiles before reducing the bend in his spine to return to that perfect mouth.

 

They have been carrying on like this for some time now, and Wrench is becoming impatient. He wants more, and if Numbers is going to be so agreeable, then he is going to take more. He releases one hand from its hold on Numbers’ face, where it had been exploring the texture of the man’s beard, and reaches down, trailing fingers along the line of buttons on Numbers’ shirt. He can feel his partner’s sharp intake of breath as his hand passes his belly, turning it so that heel of his palm rests against the crotch Numbers’ trousers. Numbers’ posture shifts and Wrench shifts with him, reaffirming the grip of his remaining hand on the smaller man’s face and pressing his back into the wall with his body. Wrench can feel the small sound Numbers makes in his throat as he presses the heel of his hand into his cock, feeling its arousal beneath his touch. Both men exhale into each other before Wrench begins.

 

Wrench pulls their mouths apart, but remains close. He opens his eyes so that he can watch Numbers’ face as he slowly and firmly grinds his hand into the man’s cock. After a moment, Numbers’ eyes open, and after another moment, he lifts them to meet Wrench’s. At first, his gaze is accusatory and defiant, though his cock and the hard flush in his cheeks give away his complicity. Wrench lengthens and deepens his attentions, bringing his hips in to join in the motion, pressing his forehead to Numbers’, beginning to lose himself in the feeling of the grind on his own cock against Numbers’ body. But when Numbers leans his head back against the wall and presses his hips forward to meet his, Wrench is pulled back into reality. He slows his actions slightly, raising himself to his full height so that he is once again looking down into the face of his partner. But this time his expression is different.

 

Numbers’ eyes are red rimmed and shiny from the alcohol, the lack of sleep, and, Wrench believes, lust. His breathing is labored, his body damp with sweat. But when Numbers, suddenly unsure, even shy, in Wrench’s sudden stillness, delicately bites his lower lip, Wrench’s insides twist and he knows it is all over for him. It is now or never. Months of quiet patience are moving fast now as Wrench grabs Numbers by the belt loops roughly, and lifts the smaller man onto the bar’s counter. Numbers gasps and shouts, but is too startled to resist properly before Wrench raises himself to a knee on a bar stool, one hand on the back of Numbers’ neck, the other pressing his shoulder back into the wall as he brings their mouths together again. Wrench’s mouth is more insistent now as he returns to palming Numbers’ cock through his trousers, biting at his partner’s already red, swollen lips. Numbers is hard, Wrench realizes, and gasping.

 

Without hesitation, Wrench pulls away from Numbers. He grabs the man’s shoulders and presses him against the wall as he does so, looking him in the eye, daring him to move a muscle as he lets go. He steps off the stool and turns on his heel, crossing the bar quickly, with long strides. He pulls down the shade over the door’s window and locks it with a click he cannot hear, before turning in one motion back toward his partner. Numbers has not moved. He is sitting where Wrench left him only moments before, his back against the wall and his feet on the counter in front of him. His eyes widen slightly with apprehension as Wrench strides back toward him, face set, motions deliberate and unyielding until he is back on the stool. His hands return to the back of Numbers’ neck, bringing them back together. Numbers is shaking and his eyes are closed, but he does not resist.

 

Once again, as before, Wrench releases one hand. He places it on Numbers’ knee, lifting his own chin to bring his mouth back to that of his partner. Wrench releases the knee and slides his hand to the crotch of Numbers’ trousers. The man shudders at his touch as Wrench deftly, and with one hand, undoes belt, button, and fly. He reaches a hand beneath Numbers’ shirt first, sliding it along his abdomen, around his hip, and up his waist before he feels Numbers make a sound against his mouth and try to pull away. Wrench adjusts the hand on Numbers’ neck and looks up at him. Numbers looks back at him, down and through heavily lidded eyes. But he does not move, seemingly adjusting a sore neck in an uncomfortable position. His mouth is a hard line now and he does not say or do anything, but he holds Wrench’s gaze and does not look away. Wrench steels himself.

 

Taking Numbers’ mouth once again, and with renewed vigor, Wrench extracts his hand from his partner’s shirt and slips it into his trousers, freeing his hardened cock. Numbers shudders again, hard, and grips the counter’s edges on either side of him. His head dips, his eyes screwed shut, and Wrench leans into him as they both breathe for a moment. Wrench slides his thumb along the shaft slowly a few times, feeling Numbers’ body tremble every time the tip of it brushes the lower edge of the head. Wrench stares at him, his gaze unwavering, intensely watching, devouring every line, every twitch, every bead of sweat on the face of the man he has wanted so much and for so long. He supports his own weight with a hand braced against the wall behind Numbers as he teeters on one complaining knee on a bar stool. He begins pumping his hand up and down the length of the engorged cock in his hand. Wrench knows it will not be long now.

 

All at once, Wrench moves again, deliberate and with determination, as he dips down, taking Numbers’ length into his mouth. Numbers lurches and has to catch himself again. Wrench does not hear the sound he makes, but he feels the convulsion in his partner’s belly. With one hand, he presses Numbers back into the wall, and with his mouth and remaining hand, he works his partner’s cock. He slides tongue, lips and fingers down and up the length steadily, even taps gently with teeth, just to feel the man jump. That one is just for Wrench; he loves to make men jump. Wrench loves this. If he loves anything in life, it is this. The other parts of sex are good, and he has done them all, but having a man at his mercy, with a mouthful of cock, is where Wrench would live, if the real estate weren’t so abstract. It does not take much longer before Numbers exhibits the tell-tale signs, and when he comes, Wrench bears down hard and unrelenting. Numbers twists, but Wrenches hand on him is firm and he stills.

 

When Wrench pulls off of Numbers’ cock, he gently tucks it back into place and looks up at him. His head is back and he is leaning against the wall, fingers still gripping the counter for support. He is panting, his face, neck, and that bit of exposed chest are flushed red and shimmering with sweat under the poor quality, flickering florescent lights of the bar. Wrench believes, in this moment, that he has never seen a more beautiful sight. His partner looks utterly ruined. But he cannot bask for long. Numbers is beginning to show signs of life, shifting where he sits. This moment is a part of his plan and there are steps to be taken. Slowly, Wrench pulls himself onto the counter, facing his partner, and releasing the pressure on his aching knee. He props his foot on the bar stool, places a hand onto the wall on either side of Numbers’ head, and leans toward him so that they are close.

 

He is effectively pinning Numbers in place, preventing him from moving away, preventing him from regaining his composure. Numbers’ shoulders curl in and he bows his head, avoiding Wrench’s gaze. Wrench will wait for as long as it takes. He will wait for Numbers to acknowledge his presence and the event. He will let Numbers take control of their affairs again, but it will be on his terms. This moment is key to his plan, for Wrench has no intention of ever acting like this event never happened. There is still so much more of Numbers that Wrench wants. He will not settle for this. He is going to have it all. But not now, and possibly not even soon. This will take time and patience. But Wrench is ready to be patient. Because Wrench’s plan is not just to take from Numbers what he wants. Wrench is going to make Numbers want it. Wrench is going to make Numbers want him.

 

It takes Numbers awhile, and no matter how much Wrench loves to watch his partner breathing, his back is aching; but finally the man moves. Numbers reaches up and awkwardly pats Wrench on the shoulder. He looks up at him through his eyelashes, making eye contact only briefly, but a small, nervous smile escapes him as he signs, in the limited space between them, “Okay. Okay.” But before Numbers can start to move away, before he can put distance between them, Wrench gently takes his partner’s face in his hands, one last time, and kisses him, just once, softly, before looking into his eyes and climbing down off the counter.

 

He faces away from Numbers, giving him a private moment to right himself and put himself back together, before turning back to him and signing, with a smirk, “So what do we do about these guys, then?”

 

Things like this, thinks Wrench, should only happen on the coldest nights.


	2. Phase Two: A Lukewarm Reception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps he has gone too far.

Several weeks pass between them before they touch again. Numbers doesn’t speak to him for the rest of that night, and for most of the following few days, after disposing of the bodies and torching the bar. Wrench decides that he can wait for that, as well. He will not touch Numbers again, will not pressure him, will not behave in any less than his usual professional manner until Numbers decides he can trust him again. For a week, there is a marked increase in the frequency of Numbers’ glances over his shoulder. For two weeks, Numbers starts and blushes whenever Wrench enters a room. After three weeks, they are assigned a case in Georgia. By now, it is early March. The snow in Minnesota is breaking up, but it is still freezing. In Georgia, it will be warm. And it is that promise of warm weather to come that finally breaks through Numbers’ tepid demeanor and brings banter and conversation back to their partnership.

 

While in Georgia, Wrench decides it is safe to tease Numbers a bit. He takes advantage of the warm weather, using it as an excuse to neglect certain articles of clothing. Long gone are the jackets and the sweaters and the heavy clothing. They spend their downtime in hotel rooms with the windows open, hoping to catch a breeze. Wrench regularly strips down to jeans and leans against walls and tables and drapes himself across beds, fanning himself with the little note pads that hotel staff leave in the rooms. Numbers always looks pointedly away, an angry furrow to his brow, attempting to hide his blush. Sometimes he does this mid-sentence, which clearly frustrates Numbers, as he is forced to choose between hiding his obvious discomfort and communicating with his partner. Every time Numbers gives up and looks away, Wrench smiles at the back of his head, wickedly.

 

It is during the sixth week following the incident at the bar that they come together for the second time. They are still in Georgia. Wrench has left the bathroom door open to dissipate some of the humidity created by his hot shower. Numbers comes in from a food run to find Wrench leaning over the sink in the little room, fresh out of the shower, hair still dark and sodden, water droplets leaving trails on his skin. When Numbers finds him, he is wiping away a circle of steam from the fogged mirror. Wrench catches sight of his partner in that circle and gives him that wicked little smile. Numbers looks angry, his brows knit to a near uni-brow, his entire face beet red. He looks ridiculous standing there, holding a bag of cheap take out in each hand, flanking an obvious erection. Wrench bursts out laughing, still supporting his weight on the sink. Numbers’ expression darkens and the color in his cheeks deepens, but he does not turn away. Wrench takes this as his cue to take things, or rather Numbers, from there, reaching a hand out the door and pulling him into the steam.

 

It has been two months since their first time. Over these past months, Wrench has learned a great deal about his partner. Not about his past, or his goals for the future, not his hopes and his dreams, or whether he prefers chocolate or vanilla. No, what Wrench has learned about his partner is how to read him. Wrench knows now when Numbers wants it. These are the days when Numbers vacillates between not being able to look at him and not being able to look away from him. These are the days when the back of Numbers’ neck goes red at seemingly innocent moments. When Numbers clears his throat; a lot. When he is jumpy and his hands shake as he grips the silverware at that evening’s diner. Wrench likes to draw these days out; Numbers will not say he wants it, he will not make the first move. So Wrench makes him sweat for hours at a time before, finally, taking him.

 

Like tonight, Numbers has stormed out of the hotel room, whipping on his coat in a whirl as he flies from the room. Wrench smiles from his place, stretched across his bed on his stomach, watching television. His heart is beating; he knows he will not hold out much longer. After a time, the door to the room opens slowly. Wrench catches the movement out of the corner of his eye and he rolls his head onto its side, looking over at Numbers. Numbers stands in the doorway for a moment before closing the door, turning his back to Wrench. He waits. It’s cold out; even if Numbers runs out again, he will be back. Finally, he turns and attempts to walk passed Wrench, heading toward the bathroom. Wrench reaches out, grabbing his arm as he passes. Numbers stops. Wrench looks up at him and Numbers looks down at him. Wrench pulls on his partner’s sleeve until he slowly drops to his floor in front of him. Wrench pushes himself forward, smiling slightly as he kisses Numbers, closing his eyes.

 

Wrench feels something against his cheek. He opens his eyes and pulls away. Even after weeks of regular intimacy, this is the first time Numbers has reached for him. Numbers retracts his hand, blushing, apprehensive. Wrench pulls himself up and places a hand on Numbers’ chest, pushing the man onto his back, as he slides off the mattress. He straddles his partner’s body and leans back on his heels, shedding his jacket. Numbers remains still on the floor beneath him. Wrench holds Numbers’ gaze, intent, and signs, “Touch me again.” He leans down as Numbers pulls at the hem of Wrench’s t-shirt, sliding it up and over his head before taking Wrench’s face in his hands, pulling him into a kiss. Numbers’ hands are in his hair and he is kissing back more fiercely than Wrench has ever been kissed before. His insides twist, his heart thrills; he finds that he is a little lightheaded. He gasps and shudders against his partner’s mouth. He never wants Numbers to stop touching him. Tonight he will suck Numbers’ cock into oblivion.

 

It has been three months since their first time together. Things have been going well, up to this point. Every time they come together, Numbers is a little more involved in their activities. When it started, Wrench simply had his way with the man, but once Numbers began to touch, caress, and embrace, it did not take him long to move on to grabbing, biting, and clinging. For four weeks, Wrench has been quite pleased; pleased with himself and pleased with how well his plan has been progressing. He has accomplished phase one; he has made Numbers want it, and, for awhile at least, this been enough. In fact, more than enough. But tonight, something is different. Tonight, Wrench is feeling dissatisfied, once again, wanting more. He wants Numbers to initiate. He is tired of calling the shots, he is tired of taking control, he is tired of making decisions. But, most of all, he is _tired_.

 

Their current assignment is not going well. Both men refuse to acknowledge it, but it is becoming more and more apparent to them that they will not be able to complete it. Fargo had led them to believe that the guy they were sent to monitor was small time; easy pickings. The guy had made a contract with Fargo but had been unable to uphold his end of the bargain. They were given two weeks to scope the situation, basic surveillance, and then report to Fargo for further instruction. Upon receipt of their report, Wrench and Numbers were instructed to take out the main boss and then cut a deal with his second in command; you give us what your boss promised, and we don’t kill you. It all seemed simple enough. Perhaps this apparent simplicity had blinded them, causing them to be careless. Maybe that is the reason they are in such dire straits now.

 

On the night Wrench and Numbers are set up to ambush their target, they fail to account for the goons the guy has backing him up. As it would turn out, he has known all along that he was being tailed, has known all along that the hit was coming, has, in fact, been playing Fargo from the beginning, and now, Wrench has sustained an injury. The fight is mercifully short, but mercilessly brutal. The only reason Numbers escapes relatively unscathed is that he has heard their movements just seconds before they are on them. He has time to defend himself, but Wrench does not. Unfortunately for Wrench, his assailants are the ones with the baseball bat. Numbers manages to put enough distance between himself and the attackers, winning him enough time to draw out his weapon and fire a few wild shots. He catches one man in the head and another in the leg. The other two back off momentarily, regrouping and gathering their weapons. Numbers drags Wrench to his feet, pulling him into the safety of a dark stairwell before the remaining two men pass, on the hunt.

 

Wrench has been down for the count for three days. He has sustained no broken bones, but the severe bruising along the right side of his body has temporarily taken from Wrench his ability to walk. He is laid up in their rat trap motel in some hole in the wall town in Nebraska, bed ridden. Numbers has been trying to put eyes on their target alone, but, as of now, has been unsuccessful. He appears to have vanished, Numbers explains on the fourth day, dropping into the ratty chair sat at the foot of Wrench’s bed. It is three o’clock in the morning. Wrench closes his eyes and leans his head back against the wall. He is so tired. He does not want to discuss the target. If they do, it will only lead to their acceptance of the inevitable; that the guy is gone, that Fargo’s money is gone, and now one of their top enforcers is out of commission for an as of yet undisclosed amount of time. And to top it off, Numbers is having one of his days. Wrench is miserable.

 

After a moment, Wrench feels Numbers kick his right foot. He hisses and opens his eyes, glaring hard at Numbers. “What?” He signs, exasperated. Numbers just shrugs in reply, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. Wrench rolls his eyes before closing them again, but once more, Numbers reaches out and hits him. Wrench knows what Numbers is trying to suggest, he has been trying to suggest it without having to directly ask for it all day, and Wrench has been ignoring him; all day. It is possible that Numbers has forgotten his partner’s injuries and the difficult situation they are in with Fargo, and it infuriates him further. He stares, giving Numbers the face of death, before carefully telling him that that fucking hurt and if he was going to be a little piece of adult-baby-grown-ass-man-shit, then why not take that attitude out on the shits that did this to them and leave him in fucking peace for once, or better yet, maybe he can go find someone else to fuck him, because for once it sure as hell isn’t going to be Wrench.

 

Numbers blanches and little red blotches break out all over his face. He starts to sign, “but I don’t want,” before trailing off and glancing away, his expression a confused mixture of shame and anger. Wrench slams his good fist down onto the bedside table. He does not hear the lamp rattle, perched dangerously near the edge of the table, but Numbers does. He starts and looks back at Wrench, uneasily. “ _What_?” Wrench signs, “don’t want _what_?” Numbers looks away again, blushing deeply and shaking his head. Wrench has reached his limit. He has had enough. He hits the table once more, this time sending the lamp to the floor as he swings his legs off the edge of the bed and standing, painfully. He walks to Numbers, who is now frozen to his spot, and places a hand on either arm of the chair. Wrench has a sudden flashback to that night at the bar, remembering how invigorated and how alive he had felt the first time he was ever this close to his partner’s body.

 

But Wrench forces that thought to the back of his mind, that delicious and most enticing thought, of taking this man’s body with his own will and his own hands, that most precious memory of the first time he put lips to that face and that cock, before pulling back far enough to sign, “When you can say it, come talk to me. But until you can, stay the fuck away from me.” And with that said, Wrench moves himself back toward the bed, struggling to keep his foot from dragging, his shoulder from drooping, and, at long last, after that terrible few feet, drops back down onto the rickety mattress and shuts his eyes. He wants to block out both the pain and his partner. His body throbs as pain shoots up and done his nervous system, causing his fingers, toes, and eyelids to twitch. He has to work to hold back a whimper, and the shivering, as the cold sweat of pain and shock break out over his body. He does not hear the door to the hotel room open and then close.

 

The next few days are the tensest that their partnership has ever experienced. Even on their most chaotic of assignments, when the strength of their trust and loyalty to one another has been most stringently tested, even when one or the other has done something stupid or nearly gotten one or the other killed, Wrench has never been afraid to turn his back on his partner, like he is now. Numbers does not speak beyond telling Wrench that he is not going to crawl back to Fargo without taking another shot at bringing down their target. Even then, he signed that into the mirror, his back to Wrench, his gaze averted. Numbers is angry. No, Wrench decides, that is not the right words for it. Numbers is dangerous. Wrench tries to keep Numbers in his line of sight while also appearing indifferent to his existence. He remains ready at all times to remind Numbers that, injuries or no, he, too, is dangerous. But Numbers does not come near him and does not look at him.

 

After three days of tension and silence, Wrench, for the first time since putting his plan into motion, doubts his actions. It is possible that he has pushed his partner too far. It is possible that with each passing day, as Numbers’ frustration and fury grows with each failed attempt to locate any sign of the target or his goons, he creeps ever closer to turning on Wrench. At night, Wrench is plagued, unable to sleep for fear that Numbers may come for him in the night. He is plagued, also, by memories of the various things that most attract him to Numbers, twisted among visions of the same man coming to kill him. Memories of the dryness of Numbers’ chapped winter lips against his own, the beating of his heart beneath his hands, the warmth of his skin as his partner trails fingers down his body, and the heat of his breath mixing with his own, then, suddenly, Numbers’ hands around his neck with murder etched deep into his features, or a gun pressed between his eyes and it is too late—Wrench holds deadly still, night after night, but he never comes for him. Wrench fears he may never touch that man again.

 

It has been a week since the failed ambush attempt. Wrench has just returned with food from some cheap Chinese place down the street. He has only purchased enough for himself. He can walk now, though it is with a limp, and he is still cradling his right arm a little, keeping it close to his body. He sits at the edge of his bed, staring at the curtained window in front of him. Numbers had gone out the night before, Wrench assumed in another useless effort to track down the target, but now it is approaching sunset and Wrench has seen no sign of his partner. He toys with the idea that perhaps Numbers has decided to leave him there, rather than kill him. He may have just taken the car and left. Wrench takes a deep breath and sighs, deeply and slowly. He pokes despondently at his limp chao mein before abandoning it, all interest in its greasy depths lost to him. He shuts the box and sets it on the side table, leaning back against the headboard, and closing his eyes.

 

He tells himself that it will be okay to be alone. It will be easier, even. Surely it was easier before Numbers had come along.

 

He tells himself this, but he does not believe it.


	3. Phase Three: Payoff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all works out, in the end.

It is dark when Wrench wakes up. It is the first real sleep he has had in days and so he is groggy and disoriented. It takes him a minute to register it, but there is a shape moving in the blackness beside him. Once the shape is spotted, however, Wrench leaps into action, in the way only someone accustomed to the possibility of unexpected attacks can. He lashes out, grabbing whoever is looming there. There is a brief struggle and then the would-be attacker flicks the switch on the battered lamp next to the bed. Both men blink in the sudden brightness for a moment before recognition kicks in. Numbers stands there beside Wrench’s bed, looking irritated, with the plastic fork still in his hand. Wrench stares up at him in astonishment and disbelief. At the same time Numbers signs, “Can’t a guy eat?” Wrench is signing, “I thought you left,” and then, both men feeling awkward, flush a little and look away.

 

Numbers glances down at Wrench’s hand, strong fingers still gripped around his wrist, then raises his eyebrows at his partner. Wrench scowls at him before releasing him. “I thought you were going to kill me.” Numbers presses his mouth into a hard line, hesitates a moment, then removes his coat, laying it neatly on the bedspread. He slowly takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “I wasn’t.” Wrench asks him how the search is going and, after a brief pause, Numbers admits, at last, that it is hopeless, the guy is long gone. He had called Fargo and given them his report earlier that night. They were due back to headquarters in a couple days. “How are the injuries?” Wrench shrugs and says he figures he’ll be back to normal soon enough. They sit in silence for a long time after that, neither man knowing quite what to say.

 

Eventually, Numbers turns toward Wrench and starts to sign, “Sorry, I could smell the food when I came in and I was—“ but Wrench has already reached out, stilling him with a hand on his arm. Wrench is happy to see him. He places a hand on Numbers’ cheek, thumbing a slow circle against his ear lobe. Numbers closes his eyes before gently removing Wrench’s hand. After so many weeks of confidence and self-assurance, it is Wrench who is now apprehensive. But Numbers does not let go of his hand, so Wrench figures there must be something in that. Numbers stares down at their hands, fidgeting with the tips of Wrench’s fingers for a moment before letting go to sign, “You told me to talk to you when I can say what I want.” Numbers’ hands drop to his lap, pausing as he runs his fingers along the back of Wrench’s hand, lifting it and pressing the palm to his lips before looking Wrench in the eye and saying, aloud, “I want you to fuck me.”

 

Wrench feels his insides drop from their hotel room, two stories down and to the parking lot below. He is shocked. Until moments ago, he was certain that Numbers had abandoned him, and now here he is, saying that. Saying that to him. When Wrench does not move, and simply sits, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, Numbers draws himself up onto the bed, moving towards him on hands and knees. He kisses Wrench and takes his hand once again, but this time something feels odd. They pull apart and Wrench looks down at what Numbers has put into his hand. It is a little, innocuous tube of KY. Wrench stares for the span of a few breaths, though he does not draw a single one, before dragging air deep into his lungs. He sets the tube onto the table beside them and signs, “Come here. Now.”

 

Numbers is on him now, kissing him in ernest, nibbling at his lips and pressing him into the pillows below him. Wrench catches his breath as Numbers plunges his hands beneath his shirt, dragging his palms across Wrench’s abdomen and chest as he guides the shirt from his partner’s body. Wrench arches and lifts his arms, accommodating, allowing the shirt to slip off and fall, forgotten, to the floor. Numbers runs his hands across Wrench’s skin, admiring the splash of tawny hair on his chest and arms, pressing his lips to the little patches of freckles on his shoulders and collar bones. Wrench leans back, breathing deeply, reveling in his partner’s enthusiastic attentions. Numbers’ hands travel slowly, lingering here and there to trace circles with fingers; chest, hips, belly, throat, jaw. As Numbers begins to draw a trail down his torso with lips and tongue, Wrench reaches down his back, pulling Numbers’ shirt off so that he can press red lines into his partner’s pale flesh with his fingernails.

 

This is what Wrench wants, this is what he has gotten himself off on the thought of for so long. He feels giddy and short of breath, and cannot stop himself smiling up at the ceiling, while Numbers nips and bites at the flesh around his navel. Wrench reaches down and grabs Numbers, drawing him back up to him. He smiles, and Numbers returns it with a wide smile of his own. Wrench can feel his face flush with pleasure and lust as he reclaims the man’s mouth, tasting him, winding fingers into the hair at the back of his head as he hooks a finger in the man’s belt loop, pulling him down onto the bed. He props himself up on an elbow and looks down at Numbers, running his fingers through a dark mat of chest hair. He signs, “Take your pants off,” but as his fingers brush the belt buckle, Numbers’ fingers curl around his own, preventing him. Wrench gives him a quizzical look and Numbers shakes his head before sitting up and undoing the button of Wrench’s jeans. “You first.”

 

Wrench allows himself to be pressed onto him back and he marvels as Numbers removes his jeans and underpants. He lies there, exposed, while Numbers takes a moment to take in the sight of him. Wrench blushes and looks away briefly before glancing back at his partner. Numbers is looking at him seriously, kneeling on the bedspread, his hands on his knees. Wrench shrugs an uncomfortable “What?” at him. Numbers blushes before leaning down to kiss him. Numbers holds the kiss for a long time before reaching down and taking Wrench’s cock in his hand. Wrench gasps and jerks; in all of this time, and after all of these weeks, this is the first time Numbers has handled Wrench’s erection. Before this, their sexual relationship had mostly been an effort to get Numbers off. Generally, Wrench came alone and by his own hand. It has been a long time since someone else was in his drivers’ seat.

 

As Wrench moves involuntarily below him, Numbers bears down on him more fiercely. They breathe and gasp against each other as Numbers pumps a closed fist around Wrench’s cock. Wrench pushes him away enough to tell him to relax his grip a little, to play more slowly, more gently, and to make it last longer. Number blushes and nods, slowing the handjob to a pace and a grip which allows Wrench to maintain some control of his faculties. Wrench pulls Numbers back to his mouth, reaching down to grip those enticing little belt loops again, dreaming of the moment when he will finally be allowed to get rid of those trousers and put hands and throat to his partner’s cock once more. For now, however, Wrench is happy with dreaming about it, as Numbers has shifted, pressing his lips to his neck. Wrench thrills and a small laugh escapes him when he feel Numbers’ nose press into the space behind his ear. If this is what he has to put up with to gain access to the inner sanctum of Numbers’ nether regions, he can wait all night.

 

All at once, their closeness ends as Numbers pulls away and sits up. His hand is still wrapped around Wrench’s cock, but he is still, rubbing the shaft absentmindedly, up and down with his thumb, much in the same way Wrench has done so many time to him. Wrench drops his arms out to either side of him; he misses the man’s body already. But only a moment passes before Number visibly steels himself and drops back down, taking the cock in his hand into his mouth. This action comes entirely unexpected to Wrench, who arches and bucks up into Numbers’ face. Numbers gags slightly and pulls off of him, angrily grabbing Wrench’s hip and pushing it down into the mattress. His hands are full so he says aloud, “HOLD. STILL. JESUS CHRIST.” Wrench laughs breathlessly, lying on his back, roughly running his hands through his own hair as Numbers takes his cock back into his mouth. This he could get used to.

 

Wrench does not last very long before he is sitting up, pushing his partner off of him. He cannot quite contain his laughter, which is slightly hysterical now, given the circumstances, as he catches sight of the man’s face. His eyes are watering, his entire face red and shining with saliva and precum. He looks so annoyed, Wrench thinks briefly that he might be falling in love with him. “WHAT?” He signs, agitated and defensive, before his face falls. “Am I no good?” Wrench kisses him, a few short pecks to the mouth, the taste of himself on his partner’s lips making his head rush, before responding, “Fuck no. Just don’t want to cum yet.” He points to the little tube of lubricant on the little table. Numbers’ eyes grow wide and his mouth forms a very tiny, “Oh,” before his face shifts into the most sheepish expression Wrench has ever seen. When Numbers bites delicately at his lower lip, Wrench knows he is falling in love with him.

 

He shifts forward, bringing them closer together. He takes Numbers’ head in his hands and presses their foreheads together. Numbers is shaking, his mouth taut, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. Wrench holds them like this for a time, waiting for Numbers to calm down a little. When his body stills and his breathing slows, Wrench releases him. “Are you sure you want to do this? You don’t have to.” Numbers is quiet for a few bests before he closes his eyed, nodding. “Yes, I do. I want it,” he opens his eyes and looks at him, “I _want_ you to fuck me.” Wrench nods, taking Numbers by the arms and pulling him around so that he is lying against the pillows on his back. This time, Wrench trails fingers down his partner’s torso, his fingers grasping, caressing Numbers’ hips before unbuckling his belt and removing trousers and underpants. They stare at each other for a moment before Wrench leans in, entwining their hands, and kissing him.

 

This is the first time that they have ever been fully naked together. The first time they have ever taken such care with one another. The two men take some time to explore each other’s bodies, using hands and mouths where they will. Wrench slides his hands down to cup, and then grip Numbers’ ass. Numbers yelps a little, digging his fingertips into Wrench’s sides. Wrench can feel Numbers’ heartbeat fast inside his chest. He wants this to be good, he wants it to go well, and so he needs Numbers to calm down. The man is a twitching, wild animal beneath him. He finds Numbers’ hands and stills them with his own, drawing them up to the space between them where they lay, looking at each other. He shifts his hands, taking both of Numbers’ hands in one of his large ones. With his free hand, he draws Numbers toward him, kissing him softly, slowly, until Numbers is sighing against his mouth.

 

At long last, Wrench pulls away. “Are you ready?” A blush creeps across Numbers’ cheeks as he nods. He rolls Numbers back onto his back, reaching across him to grab the little tube from the bedside table. He tinstructs Numbers to pull his knees up to his chest and to breath. He promises: this will be good. Numbers nods, but says nothing. Wrench applies the lubricant to his fingers, rubbing some against Numbers’ asshole. The smaller man tenses, but Wrench just gently massages the spot, looking at his partner and spelling the words, “R E L A X” and “B R E A T H E.” Numbers closes his eyes as Wrench inserts a finger, working it in and out a few times. Numbers’ brow is knitted and he is breathing slowly, but his tension is plainly evident, so Wrench shifts tactics. He wanted this to be a surprise, but perhaps a small taste will bring his partner’s eagerness back. He readjusts his position, probing and searching with a single finger, until finally locating the spot.

 

Numbers eyes fly open and his body jerks and arches. Wrench has to defend himself as Numbers loses his grip on his shins. He stares up, wildly, at Wrench, who merely smirks and raises an eyebrow. “Good?” A startled nod is Numbers response. “Again?” An emphatic nod. Numbers pulls his knees back to his chest, smiling weakly. Wrench slips his finger back in, working the hole until he feels it beginning to relax, before, slowly and carefully, adding another. Numbers stiffens at the unfamiliar sensation and Wrench keeps still for a moment, then presses both fingers into Numbers’ prostate. A gentle rub of the small organ, and Numbers lets out a low moan. When Wrench releases the pressure, Numbers’ body relaxes around his fingers. He retracts them, adding more lubricant to the palm of his hand. The sound of the cap opening brings Numbers’ eyes back around to meet his.

 

He stares at Wrench’s hand and cock as he is slowly preparing for the next step. Wrench slows his strokes even more, rising up onto his knees to gives his partner a better view of his swollen cock. Numbers eyes are hot and his breathing is sharp and shallow, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Wrench reaches between Numbers’ raised legs and firmly grips his the man’s erect cock, sliding his hand, still slick with KY, up its length, before drawing his thumb slowly, excruciatingly, across the very tip of the head. Numbers is making noises Wrench can only guess at, as he presses his head back into the bedding, gasping. If his hands were not full, he would place them at his partner’s throat and chest, so that he could feel it, but, alas, Wrench has his cock in one hand, and Numbers’ in his other. Without releasing either, Wrench shifts forward, pressing the head of his cock against Numbers’ asshole.

 

Numbers tenses and resists at first, but Wrench waits, continuing his attentions to the man’s cock. Once Numbers relaxes, Wrench pushes forward, slowly, pausing now and then to let his partner breathe and adjust, until, at long last, the head slips in. In an effort to distract Numbers, Wrench bends, with some difficulty, at the waist to take some of the man’s cock into his mouth, as he slowly works his way into his ass. Once again, Numbers’ body arches, but Wrench places his now free hand on his stomach and presses him down. He bears down hard on Numbers’ cock as he finally manages to bury himself in his partner, up to the hilt. He looks up at Numbers from his position, swallowing his cock while simultaneously filling his ass, and experiences a certain feeling of smug satisfaction. Numbers has not looked so utterly ruined since their first time.

 

Wrench releases Numbers’ cock so that he can focus on the more important task at hand. After the night’s activities, Wrench knows he will not be able to last long. He must make the best of what time he has left. He draws himself up so that he is looming over Numbers, leaning his weight on one hand while the other takes a stabilizing hold of the man’s hip. He slowly pulls back, then pushes forward carefully, trying to read Numbers’ body as it tenses around him. He reaches for the tube and adds a little more lubricant, hoping that this will help. Wrench adjusts his position again as he feels his own cock beginning to swell. He leans down, taking Numbers’ face in his hand, looking him in the eyes as he angles his cock to slowly slide against the man’s prostate. Numbers cries out and, no longer able to keep his grip on his knees, wraps his legs around Wrench’s waist, reaching down with his hands, pulling Wrench into him as he cums. A few pumps later, and Wrench releases, as well.

 

Wrench carefully pulls out of Numbers and collapses. Both men lay, in a spent and panting heap, on the bed. They are disgusting. Everything is disgusting. Everything is covered in sweat and lube and cum. They both wreak of sex, which Wrench eventually points out, once his hands have stopped shaking and his brain has congealed into something a little more solid than cottage cheese. He stares up at the equally disgusting, though for more stylistic and less sexual reasons, textured ceiling. He turns a few key memories over in his mind, storing them away to lovingly recall at later dates. If it were not for the stink in the room, Wrench would have had trouble believing that any of this has happened. He feels Numbers swat at the bedspread a few times before finding his hand and awkwardly, clumsily, grasping it. Wrench’s heart constricted deliciously, almost painfully; he has finally gotten what he wanted.

 

After a moment, he rolls up onto an elbow and kisses Numbers, smiling his wicked little smile, before signing, “So. How’s your butt?”

 

Numbers turns and punches Wrench hard, knocking him down onto the bed. A brief wrestling match ensues, but they are both too weak and out of breath for it. They dissolve into fits of laughter, dragging each other off to the shower.

 

They will sleep in the clean bed tonight.


End file.
